by Mary Easson
I had read in the press that the Lothian and Fife pit owners had lost lucrative contracts with Swedish, Finnish and Danish Rail and even the London Gas Works to German suppliers. No wonder they were so keen to see the current dispute through to a suitable conclusion, from their point of view.
‘Isabelle said it would be difficult for the miners to understand but they would eventually come to realise that their jobs are on the line, and the future of the country is at stake,’ added Phee.
I could imagine how quickly Isabelle would conclude that the coalmasters had right on their side.
Phee looked out at the countryside for a while then thanked me for being with her that afternoon. It had been good to get out of the house, away from thoughts of disputes and conflict and the dread of assassins lurking in the garden. The relationship between Isabelle and Catherine was getting her down too since she always felt like piggy-in-the-middle and didn’t want to upset either by taking sides. She couldn’t stand the way Isabelle always dwelt on the news these days and brought up a new problem at every available opportunity. If it wasn’t the continuing situation in Venice – which was closed to visitors because of striking railway workers – it was protests in Germany and Paris; if it wasn’t Germany or Paris, it was Turkish atrocities against the Greeks; if it wasn’t Greece it was fifty thousand protesting workers, shot at by Cossacks in St Petersburg at the start of the month; if it wasn’t Russia, it was the Balkans or Scandinavia or rebellious Ireland.
I could not imagine what it was like to live at Parkgate at that moment. To have every luxury available and yet not be happy. Perhaps the possibility, however remote, of losing it all might be too hard to bear.
‘Let’s go,’ I said, squeezing Phee’s hand.
She put the vehicle into gear, ‘I’d love to go to Venice!’ she called to me.
‘Perhaps Eric will take you! On honeymoon!’
We sped off much faster than I anticipated, our heads suddenly full of happy thoughts of weddings and love and foreign travel to romantic destinations.
Dinner at Parkgate House on the night of the Blackrigg Gala Day was a rather uncomfortable affair, though the tension of the past week, according to Phee, had dissipated both with the passing days and the presence of Imrie’s men in the grounds during the hours from dusk till dawn. David’s return from army camp the previous day had been warmly welcomed but everyone seemed tired from lack of sleep, leaving them fractious.
Isabelle held court at the dinner table treating the family to a précis of the week’s events and a list of the perpetrators’ possible motives. The constables, she reminded everyone, had concluded that four, possibly five, men had been involved in the trip wire incident and the materials they’d used had been stolen from the stores at Back o’ Moss Pit. Several sets of footprints had been discovered in the muddy ground beside the burn and in a boggy part of the field opposite the entrance to the house. The perpetrators wore boots similar to those worn by the majority of working men in the area, so the evidence hardly helped to narrow down the list of culprits. Only two sets of similar footprints had been found on the path out of the wood onto the moss where the second trip wire had been set up, suggesting that the perpetrators had split up in order to carry out their dastardly deeds. The break-in at Back o’ Moss Pit was, perhaps, more helpful in narrowing down the field, according to Constable Mackay. Due to the central location of the stores within the complex of buildings around the pithead, and the presence of two nightwatchmen, detailed local knowledge had been essential in the execution of that particular crime. Unfortunately, it was unclear exactly what else might have been stolen from the stores during the break-in except that the head storeman was able to confirm that one coil of wire, two containers of paraffin, and a variety of tools were unaccounted for.
David nodded, agreeing with Isabelle for the tenth time that security at the pit would have to be tightened up. He would have a word with the manager first thing on Monday morning. He understood her concern for the safety of the family, wanted to indulge her. He was less inclined to agree that the incident was a sign of orchestrated insurrection against the Melvilles. He reminded her of the constabulary’s view that a small group of wastrels had probably taken it upon themselves to cause trouble, capitalising on the present discontent within the mines and using it as a distraction, or an excuse for bad behaviour. Constable Mackay knew the miners well and knew them to be a peaceable lot, in the main. There were bad apples in every barrel, however, but Mackay knew who they were and had his eyes on them.
‘The culprits would be laughing their heads off at this very moment, Isabelle, if they knew how upset they’d made you,’ declared David ‘That’s probably been their intention all along!’
‘I’m not upset,’ she countered. ‘Not upset, at all. I’m angry, outraged and livid. But not at all upset. You make me sound like some whimpering idiot.’ She hated the idea of people seeing her as anything other than a considerable force.
‘Let’s try to put it behind us, eh?’ said David. ‘Going over it again and again, well... it just serves to bring us all down. If the motive of the culprits was to unsettle us then they’re succeeding. Let’s talk about something more positive, shall we? Like the weather... or... Phee’s engagement party... or, better still, the arrival of my son and heir.’ He stretched across the table towards Catherine and put his hand on hers.
Catherine smiled back at him, shyly. She looked tired.
‘Oh, alright,’ said Isabelle abruptly, looking like she’d been told off. She glanced around the table at the small gathering, a muted echo of the grand dinners and parties her parents had held on the last Saturday in June, in years gone by. ‘Don’t you just hate how the miners have stolen the Blackrigg Fair Day from us?’
‘Meaning?’ asked David glumly. Was this his elder sister’s idea of a happier topic of conversation?
‘In the past the village held a fair on the last day in June and people came from all around. The children did their hill walk. There were stalls, sports, and a tea at Mansefield – before it was a park. Father would go along to present the sports prizes to the children. Don’t you remember? And guests would gather here at the house to celebrate the arrival of mid-summer.’
‘Isn’t that what happens at the moment?’ asked Catherine wearily, wondering what point Isabelle was trying to make. ‘We would have organised a ‘grand’ dinner at Parkgate as before, had Phee’s engagement party not been imminent, scheduled for next weekend.’
‘Of course it’s what happens, more or less. But they call it a Gala Day now rather than a Fair, don’t you see?’ Isabelle emphasised the operative words as if we were stupid. ‘Now, it’s a Gala to celebrate the eight-hour day in the mines. They’re supplanting village history with a tradition of their own.’
‘Isn’t it the same thing? They’re simply giving it a new name,’ I ventured, feeling that I had been silent for too long. ‘It’s the same old local celebration.’
‘An excuse for a party!’ added Phee.
‘It’s a step towards a change in... in culture. Unless one had been here for a long time, one would think it had always been a Gala Day and that nothing else ever went before,’ explained Isabelle.
‘I don’t think that’s so bad,’ said Catherine. ‘The miners are taking an old tradition into a new age. They make up the majority of the population here nowadays, after all.’
Isabelle glared at her sister-in-law and I guessed what she was probably thinking. Why couldn’t Catherine simply agree with her point of view? Why did she always have to argue, as if trying to score points against her?
‘Everything’s changing. And we have to learn to adapt,’ said David in support of his wife, sensing Isabelle’s animosity. ‘Now what happened to my suggestion that we look forward, and with optimism?’ He squeezed Catherine’s hand again.
She smiled at her husband. ‘I think I’ll go upstairs to lie down for a bit.
I’m rather tired.’ She pushed back her chair and rose slowly to her feet. David rushed to help her. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured him. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. Finish your dessert, please. I’ll see you when you retire if I’m still awake.’
‘Goodnight,’ said Phee. ‘I hope you manage to get some sleep.’ She watched her sister-in-law leave and must have wondered, as I did, what it was like to carry a child. At times, Catherine looked wonderful – calm and serene and contented – but tonight she looked heavy and slow, as if carrying a great burden. She had passed that middle stage of pregnancy when she had glowed with happiness, after the morning sickness had disappeared and when the difficulties of childbirth were still far off in the future. Now she seemed tired and quiet, sometimes remote, wrapped up in her own world with her unborn child.
When the door closed David turned to Phee. ‘Has she been well when I’ve been away?’
‘She’s been well,’ replied Phee gently.
‘Of course, she’s been well,’ declared Isabelle. ‘It’s what women are made for. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Mother had five of us, no trouble at all.’
‘She misses you, David,’ continued Phee, ignoring her sister. ‘Do you have to go away as often?’
‘Of course, he has,’ interrupted Isabelle before David could speak. ‘The Melville men have always been warriors!’
Neither looked in her direction. Trust Isabelle to miss the point.
Isabelle threw down her napkin, got up from the table. If no one was going to listen to her, she wasn’t about to hang around and listen to conversation about her brother’s wife. ‘I’ll look in on Roger upstairs, shall I? See if he’s on the mend.’
David and Phee waited until she had left the room.
‘Do you?’ Phee repeated her question. ‘Do you have to be away so much?’
‘When you join the army, there’s no half measures,’ he explained. ‘Even when you’re not with the colours and simply a reservist, like me. When the army says jump, you jump. And at the moment they’re saying jump rather a lot.’
‘Why is that, David?’ asked Phee quietly. ‘Is it true what they’re saying? That there might be trouble in Europe?’ I knew she was thinking of Eric, her fiancé, presently on manoeuvres at Hawick with the Lowland Mounted Brigade.
‘There is trouble in Europe, Phee. There’s trouble all over Europe at the moment if you think about it.’
Phee looked worried. The papers often carried stories about the fleet and the need to strengthen coastal defences.
‘There may be trouble of the kind you’re thinking about, in the future, but not now. That’s what they’re saying in army circles and that’s why we’re training. If and when there is trouble, we’ll be ready for it. Don’t worry.’
Phee nodded and smiled. ‘Perhaps this business with the trip wires and poor Roger coming off his horse has put me on edge.’
I saw how she squeezed her brother’s hand. They had always been close and she missed him when he went away. She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.
‘Let’s take a drink through to the study before Elizabeth goes home,’ suggested David. He pulled back her chair and helped her to her feet. ‘We’ll go through the list of guests for your celebration next week and I’ll make sure you haven’t missed any of my friends. I don’t want anyone’s nose to be out of joint!’
He seemed much more relaxed out of Isabelle’s company and Phee always cheered him up.
‘I’m so looking forward to your party. And you’ll be glad to know I won’t have to be away again for a while. No more playing at soldiers for a bit. Summer camp’s over and, apart from a church parade in a couple of weeks, I should be here all summer with you... and Catherine.’
I followed behind when they walked through to the study. He seemed like the old David, the one Phee had described to me. The one who would hold his little sister’s hand when they had been children at play, in the garden or on the beach. All this talk of trouble and trip wires and army reserves was unsettling, a reminder of how precarious life was. When you cared about something very much, you realised how easily it might be taken away from you, snatching away your happiness in one fell swoop. I could see how deeply Phee felt about Eric Hyslop. She wasn’t blinded by the whirlwind of their romance – it was more than that. She’d had time to reflect upon their future together.
‘Thinking about someone nice?’ asked David.
I caught her eye.
She giggled, realising she had given herself away. ‘Yes. Very nice, actually.’
When I left to go home later that evening, I prayed for Eric and Phee, my dear friend and confidante, hoping they would enjoy a long and happy life together. I hoped that she would regain her usual happy, carefree, spirited demeanour quickly, in time for her engagement party and that nothing could spoil her happiness on that special day and all the days of her life to come. Although I had not met Eric, I believed that he must have been exceptional. He was certainly much blessed to have captured Phee Melville’s heart and to be setting out on life’s wonderful journey with her. When people find true love, surely there is nothing that can stand in their way. But as I was driven home through the glow of the summer night, that thought made me feel very sad.
John
I found out today they’re not here – not one of them – and I have to say, it shook me to the core. An orderly got me up out of bed and said I had to start walking. My fever’s gone and my wounds are healing so I’ve no excuse for lying here feeling sorry for myself.
Besides, the bed is needed for other folk.
There’s more wounded to come, he told me in his foreign accent, plenty more.
That’s why I’m here – humanitarian reasons.
My legs were like jelly at first but I made it to the lavatory without his support. It gave me a chance to look at the faces as I passed. Not one was familiar. I wondered if it was just that I couldn’t remember their faces outside my dreams.
I spoke their names, hoarsely because of my wound. Jim...? Bert...? Dan...? Rob?
But nobody answered.
The orderly told me they might be in another camp, another hospital if they were wounded. An officer would come and see me soon, to find out how I was bearing up, and to take some particulars. They already had my details though; my family would be informed as soon as possible but the number of men in my position meant it was taking a while to process the information and get word back. I’ll be moved into a regulation dormitory in a few days’ time, as soon as the doctors are happy the infection is gone and won’t come back. As soon as I’m strong enough.
I press my hand against the clean white bandage around my neck and feel the place on my hip where a dressing covers a wound. My hand is aching – not the left one with the missing finger but my right hand under its dressing. I have no recollection of what happened and how I’ve come to this place with its white walls and its clean sheets and a big cross of Jesus up on the wall.
I stare at the faces of the other men here, all in various states of disrepair, and repeat the names.
Jim? Bert? Dan? Rob?
I ask if anybody knows me.
Does anybody remember me, I ask?
Do you know where my pals are? Royal Scots…
Where have they gone?
Did somebody take them away?
Only one man replied. What’s your name, son?
I say I am John.
My name is John, I say, and I cry like a bairn for my mother.
When I say their names to myself, a rush of panic comes at me, rising from my chest, choking, taking me off down a long tunnel, rushing, rushing, the blackness of the tunnel rushing past and my body hurtling down, ever downwards like I’ve stepped into a shaft at the pit and the cage isn’t there. Last night I woke up in a sweat. I was about to scream and had to stop myself, managed to stop the sound coming out of m
y mouth just in time. They don’t look kindly on lunatics here and I don’t want to be tied to my bed, to be taken off somewhere by the orderlies. I’ve had the same dream a few of times now but when I wake it goes out of my head. I want to reach out with my aching hand and grasp at the images, drawing them back so I can piece them all together but no matter how hard I try, the dream disappears with the night.
I know that Andrew is in my dream and we’re all around him. He’s injured. His face is a mess and he’s moaning in pain. He’s clutching his belly and he’s covered in blood and bruises. We gather round him and carry him, telling him he will soon see his mother. We stumble along. There are other folk as well, people with faces I can’t quite make out; they’re hovering in the background as if they don’t want to be seen.
There’s menace in the air, crowds of people moving together against the enemy.
They’ve had enough.
They didn’t want a fight but they’ve no option because the people who could put an end to the misery wouldn’t listen, thought they could have it all their own way. They take it all, never giving an inch. It’s better to give than to receive but only if you have little to give in the first place, it seems. They could have stopped it before it began. They had it in their power. It was their job to make the decisions. They were born to it – they told us so often enough. But now we’re in this big mess that’s not of our making and we have to make it better. Men, women, and children are suffering. Their hearts are breaking, knowing they’ve been led down the garden path, knowing that it didn’t have to be this way but it’s the only way out.
We have to keep going.
Stick together.
For all our sakes.
It is sunny and warm in my dream, not cold with pissing rain lashing our faces. There’s no mud or shrieking of artillery shells or rattling of guns, just the sound of the birds on the moss and music, soft lilting music like a band is playing far, far away.